"Why do you ask, Monsieur Lareau?"
"Because," said Pamphile, between his teeth, "in the Far West that is the first thing that one thinks of, and the last."
Gabrielle grew pale.
"Monsieur Lareau," she begged, "please forget what I have said. I did not mean to offend you. Monsieur Giroux is nothing to me, but when you speak contemptuously of one of the neighbours, I wish, naturally, to defend him as much as possible. So please forgive me, Monsieur. It was discourteous in me, I know."
"Say no more, Mademoiselle Taché; it is I who have offended. I was perceiving a rival, that was all. If Jean Baptiste is not that he is my dear old schoolfellow, of whom I have often thought during my long years of exile. I should like to meet him again, for the sake of old times."
"That could be arranged," said Gabrielle, with animation. "But no, alas, I shall not be here, for I am going away to-morrow, to Quebec."
Pamphile was aghast.
"To-morrow! And I had promised myself the pleasure of another game of croquet. Not to-morrow, Mademoiselle--the day after to-morrow, let us say."
"It is not I who decides these affairs, Monsieur, but my mother; and she is inflexible."
"Ah, cruel parent! Yes, I see, I see. Because I am not an eligible parti. Cruel parent! But surely Mademoiselle will return."